Broken
by jeanie2914
Summary: When a ruthless criminal under investigation by the FBI takes Neal, Peter has to rescue him before its too late. He may joke that he can always find Neal, but after three days of being brutalized for information, locating him is just the beginning of Peter's search to find his friend.
1. Chapter 1

_I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. With that said, this is probably my most heavy hurt/comfort story yet. Not a lot of story/plot line development; just an angsty-emotional journey. More Peter POV than Neal's. I've taken liberty with all medical/psychological stuff so forgive my ignorance._

 _I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

"That's it," The man's jaw clenched in satisfaction as he looked down at the man hanging limply in the chair; even his trembling had now stopped. "That's where he is." He reached down and grabbed the dark matted hair and lifted the face-up. The eyes that had been open moments before were now closed in the pale, sweat soaked; blood-streaked face. He snorted, remembering the first hours that he had spent with the man. Hours that began with a flippant attitude; full of smart remarks and confidence that someone would rescue him.

There had even been a couple of escape attempts. One, when he tried to use his smooth tongue to make a backseat deal with Stanger and the second when he lifted a telephone from one of the men who had transported him into the basement. Both of those actions had been punished severely. Stanger had used his weapon of choice, a taser, to punish for the first offense. McGrail had dealt with the second one himself. The man who had been foolish enough to let his phone be taken had been brought back into the basement and shot in the head. McGrail recalled the absolute look of horror on his captive's face as the blood spattered across him, followed immediately by retching. He apparently had no stomach for violence, McGrail had thought with a smile. It was after that the man's demeanor had changed. The smart remarks stopped; in fact all speaking stopped. The man had clenched his teeth and glared at McGrail, defiant in his silence. McGrail knew the man had the hope of rescue. He still thought that if he could hold out long enough, someone would come for him. But as time wore on, the punishment unrelenting, McGrail begin to see that hope slip from the man's eyes. Even as his physical strength began to fail, he somehow retained a remarkable mentally strength. It was something McGrail hadn't often came across. Unusual, it made the game more entertaining, more challenging and even more rewarding to win.

One aspect of the interrogation was to keep the man awake. Sleep deprivation resulted in an altered state of consciousness that made a person more open to suggestion and less able to resist continued questioning. To do this, he and Stanger had taken turn about meting out punishment and questioning their prisoner. Stanger didn't enjoy the physical exertion of beating a man as much as McGrail did; his interrogation methods were different but effective. The only trick was to not allow the man to remain unconscious for any significant amount of time. That had proven more and more of a challenge as the hours had passed. He was beginning to be harder and harder to wake up when he slipped into unconsciousness. McGrail had done this before; he was good at it, and he always got results in the end. In a previous life, he had done this for pay and there he had encountered those trained to resist. However in the private sector he had never encountered someone who had resisted as long as this man had managed to. He had initially felt that a few hours would be more than enough to get everything he needed. People like him, pretty boys who lived by their wits and charm, were used to an easy life, and physical discomfort was not something they handled well. But this man had surprised him.

McGrail was still amused at the pressure point that finally broke the man's resolve and loosened his tongue. It wasn't what he had thought it would be going in; it wasn't the application of pain, deprivation or even humiliation that had broken the man. Of course, they had done their part to weaken him. But one skill that made McGrail good at what he did was his ability to read a person; to find their weakness and exploit it. This man hadn't been easy. He put up a façade from the very beginning, and he had maintained his composure remarkably well, even under extreme duress. But when McGrail had shot the inept man, he had been genuinely upset. More than that, although it had been fleeting, McGrail had seen guilt in the man's eyes. He felt a responsibility for the man's death. That indicated that he had the capacity to care for others, and probably cared deeply for those close to him. When a base need for self-preservation failed to kick in, McGrail decided to try another tactic. The man wouldn't talk to save himself, but he might talk to save someone else. And his theory had been correct. All it had taken was a photo of a dark-haired woman walking her golden retriever, and a detailed account of what would happen to her, to shatter his resistance and break through his silence; several hours later and he had told them everything they needed to know. McGrail let go, and the man's head fall against his bare chest. There was not even a grunt or groan.

"What now?" the other man asked, nodding at their prey, "Keep him around until we verify the information is good?"

McGrail paused only a moment. "The information is good," He shrugged. Information gathered in such a way always was. "But we can leave him here." Killing him wasn't necessary; McGrail knew that time would take care of that.

"Just leave him?" The man looked uncertain. "What if he wakes up?" McGrail doubted that would happen. It was the first time in three days the man had been allowed to sleep. Between that and his injuries, the chances of him ever waking again were very thin.

"He won't wake up and even if he does it won't make a difference."

McGrail reached down, touching the unconscious man's bowed head. He had indeed provided a challenge as well as an outlet for a lot of anger. This man had charmed his way into McGrail's business affairs and then betrayed his trust. That could not be allowed to stand without an example being made. No one did that to him. He had made sure his associates had been aware of the treatment the man had received for his transgressions.

"It was fun, Mr. Caffrey, I thoroughly enjoyed our time together," he said softly, "And thank you for sharing; we couldn't have done this without you." He looked at his partner in the interrogation, his eyes steeling. "Let's go find our old friend Zachary Crowe." The two men left the room, finally leaving the man alone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for reading and reviews are extra nice._

 **Chapter Two**

Peter had been confused by the random text from Neal and planned to call him about it as soon as he finished his shower and left the gym. He guessed it was some kind of mistake but from Neal that seemed odd. Neal didn't make mistakes. But before he could do so, he received a call from the US Marshals telling him Neal's tracker had been cut.

That meant that either Neal had ran or was in trouble. Well, both meant Neal was in trouble but only in one of those scenarios would Peter have received a cryptic message only moments before. He was in trouble, but it was not of his own doing. With that in mind, Peter looked again at the string of numbers Neal had sent: It was a case file.

"Its McGrail," Agent Burke announced to Jones and Berringer as he entered the White Collar office, "That is who took Neal."

They had gotten the same alert and were waiting for Peter to arrive. They were well aware of who McGrail was and why he might have a score to settle with Neal Caffrey. The White Collar team had been working to bring down his money-laundering scheme for months and, due to Neal's undercover work, had managed to nab quite a prize in the person of Zachary Crowe. Over the past week, he had been living up to his name and singing like a bird. They hadn't known how deep the operation went and who was involved, but with Crowe's Intel and testimony, they would put a hurting on one of most powerful organized crime families in the city, and bring down McGrail once and for all. They had been fairly confident that McGrail was unaware of Crowe's defection; nevertheless he was still tucked away in a safe house.

But something had gotten out; McGrail knew something. Peter's fear was that he had discovered Neal's role in the operation. If this was the case, Neal was probably as good as dead. The other option, one in which Neal might be at least temporary useful to McGrail for information, was also problematic. People who associated with McGrail were terrified of the man. McGrail had a reputation that bordered on urban legend. A former member of the South African Special Forces, he was suspected of doing very unsavory and specialized work for the secret police during apartheid. He was ruthless and cruel, and people who crossed him were often made an example of in the most convincing of ways. The thoughts of Neal in his hands sent a cold dread through Peter.

Knowing who had Neal didn't help to find him. Without evidence, they couldn't arrest McGrail. They couldn't even drag him in for questioning since they couldn't find him. He had disappeared off the grid at the same time Neal had been taken. With dozens of his known locations under surveillance nothing turned up. Peter pulled in any known associates and tried to lean on them for information, but no one was talking. If Neal had been kept alive so McGrail could get information from him, every hour that passed his odds of survival dropped considerably. Peter had exhausted all resources of the FBI after the first eighteen hours; after that, he had gone to Mozzie.

Almost three days after Neal had been taken, Peter got a message from Mozzie for a meet. The little guy had something. He had news; better than news. He had proof. When there was no special protocols, passwords or security messages Peter knew that it was serious.

Mozzie handed over a DVD. "You were correct. McGrail and one of his flunkies have Neal," he said, "This proves that and more."

Peter looked at the DVD in his hand and back at Mozzie. Mozzie was amazing but still, a DVD of proof against McGrail? "How?"

"Neal sent them to one of my holes this morning," Mozzie explained, a sad smile on his face. "Neal knows that I keep very close surveillance."

Peter raised his eyebrows, and Mozzie explained, "If someone comes uninvited I want to know who they are and why they are there." Mozzie explained. "So I have extensive monitoring of my locations. This is visual and audio of McGrail and his friend barging into my space. It is also a record of everything they said." The way Mozzie sounded took away the excitement of finally having a lead. His questioning look made Mozzie shake his head. "It's proof they have Neal, Suit; you have to bring them in and get them to tell you where he is."

"McGrail's gone underground, Mozzie," Peter explained, "If we knew where to find him we would have already brought him in for questioning."

"He'll be back out in the open now," Mozzie's voice sounded strained, "He's finished with Neal." Those words sent a chill down Peter's spine. He looked at the DVD in his hand.

"What did he say?" he asked, "Is Neal still alive?"

"They said he was when they left him, and this was only two hours ago," Mozzie said, "but I don't know how long he will be."

Peter's phone buzzed, and he answered it immediately. "Burke."

He listened for a moment, feeling a twinge of hope for the first time in days. "Bring them both in," he growled, glancing at Mozzie, "I will be right down." He disconnected the phone and looked at Mozzie. "You were right, McGrail and one of his guys just showed up at his place down on 157th Street."

"I've heard about what McGrail can do to people," Mozzie's voice was low, "Neal's was in his hands for almost three days; he's going to be in bad shape. You have got to get them to tell you where he is before it's too late to save him."

"I will," Peter clenched his jaws in determination, "I promise, whatever it takes, I will find Neal."

Mozzie sighed, "For once Suit, those words actually bring me comfort."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to all who are reading and many thanks for those who are reviewing._

 **Chapter Three**

Peter kept his calm as he stepped into the room to interrogate Vincent McGrail. It wasn't easy. He had listened to the brief conversation between the men when they had mistakenly entered one of Mozzie's many safe houses in the city. There was a sense of pride when McGrail spoke of how he had gotten Neal to talk; he was certain Neal hadn't misled him or given him false information. The man obviously enjoyed doing that kind of work. He had done it for others before; now he did it for his own gain.

Peter didn't want to imagine what McGrail had done to Neal but it gave him consolation to know that, no matter what Neal had gone through, he had managed to get this man. He had led the men to a location where he knew their every move, every word, would be captured. McGrail had bragged about breaking Neal, but Neal couldn't have really been broken. A broken man couldn't have conned McGrail into waltzing into Mozzie's hide out. Neal was a master of deception and he had let McGrail believe what he wanted to believe. That was all.

Peter knew the best chance for vital information would most likely come from McGrail's lackey, but he wanted a shot at the man himself first. Information from him may be vital to squeezing the other. It was hard to make that call knowing that time was of the essence. He put down the folder on the table and put on his best face. He clenched his jaws and sat down.

"We know everything," he began. "We have both video and audio of everything you said and did after entering the premises of 189 Adcock Circle."

The man just leaned back and said nothing. He didn't look the least bit uncomfortable or worried. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Peter picked up the folder, opened it and read, "McGrail: They've moved Crowe," he said, looking up at the man across from him, then back to the transcript in front of him. "Stanger: Did Caffrey lie to us? Do we need to go back and talk to him? McGrail: No, the information we got was good. Crowe has been moved. Stanger: How can you be sure? McGrail: You saw Caffrey." Peter had to make a special effort to keep his tone even as he continued "When I break a man, he is broken. Crow was here. Stanger: What do we do now? McGrail: Now that we know its Crowe, we find him. Then he is a dead man." Peter shut the folder and looked at the man steadily.

McGrail didn't look in the least shaken and his voice was steady. "Reading fictional stories to me gets you nowhere. I want to make my call."

"We have everything on tape, McGrail. Audio" he shook the folder "and video. Confessing to kidnapping Neal Caffrey, assault, as well as making a threat on another man's life. You can make it easier on yourself by telling us where Caffrey is."

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Agent Burke."

"Where is he, McGrail? If he is still alive, murder won't be added to the list of charges we are compiling against you right now."

"I am sorry, I can't help you." The small smile only infuriated Peter more.

"I don't care what you did to him," Burke said, his voice low and laced with anger, "You didn't break him. He sent you into a trap. Crowe wasn't moved. He was never there."

That brought the first look of uncertainty to the man's face. "That's impossible." He breathed before he could stop himself.

"No, it is not," Peter said, pride welling up in his voice. "Neal sent you into a property he knew was under surveillance. He knew that every move you made, every word you said would be recorded. No matter what you did to him over the past two days, or what you think you did to him, He beat _you._ "

The look on the man's face went from disbelief to anger. After a moment, those emotions faded into cool complacency. He shrugged his shoulders dispassionately.

"Winning don't mean much when you are dead, Agent Burke."

Regardless of McGrail's words, Peter clung to the fact that Neal had been alive when the men had left him. That had only been just over three hours ago. McGrail had been caught off guard and angry when he learned that Neal had somehow bested him. His words were spoken in hope and not fact, Peter reminded himself. The man had stopped talking and demanded his lawyer. Peter moved to the next room. It was time to take a shot at Stanger. The man at least looked nervous when Peter entered, dropping the same file on the table between them.

"We know everything," he began again. "We have both video and audio of everything you said and did after entering the premises of 189 Adcock Circle."

The man visibly paled but clenched his jaws. Peter read the same excerpt from the transcript that he had read to McGrail.

"This tells me you were with Caffrey; Where is he?" The man just looked at him. "If we find him before he dies you don't go down for murder. Talk to me."

"I didn't murder anyone and I didn't do anything to Caffrey," He said. "It was all McGrail."

"Nevertheless, you were there," Peter said, not for a moment believing that he hadn't taken part. "You were complicit. An accessory to kidnapping and subsequent assault. If he dies, you are on the hook for that, too."

The man was silent only a moment. When he spoke, Peter knew he was about to incriminate both himself and McGrail further.

"You know, Burke," he almost spat the name, "you owe McGrail a thank you, if you ask me."

Peter kept his reaction to one of mild curiosity. "And why is that?"

"For getting rid of Caffrey," he sneered, "I wouldn't want a guy like that sweet on my wife."

Peter felt a wave of anger, but it didn't transfer into his voice. "My wife has nothing to do with this."

"Are you sure?" he asked, "I would guess that Caffrey has a way with the ladies and he sure seemed to have a thing for yours."

"Where is he?" Peter pressed, ignoring the smirk on Stanger's face, "Where did you leave Neal?"

"That's what broke him, you know, broke Caffrey." When Peter didn't answer, the man actually leaned forward. Peter knew that he was the type, when frightened, to put on a face of false bravado. "He took everything McGrail dished out and kept his mouth shut. For almost two days. But when Vince showed him a photo of your wife and promised to do even more to her than he had done to him, he gave it all up." He leaned back. "He told us everything after that; he was begging to cooperate."

Peter's eyes narrowed. The thought that these men had a photo of his wife and had threatened her, nearly caused him to grab the man from his chair and pummel him. But he didn't. He needed to find Neal. "Do you know how we have this?" he held up the folder "Because Neal lead you into a trap; the address he gave you is not a bureau safe house; Crowe was never there."

The look of disbelief in the man's face matched the look earlier in McGrail's. "He sent you to what he knew was highly surveilled location and he got your recorded confession." Peter continued "You didn't _break_ Neal Caffrey," he said firmly, "You were _conned_ by him."

"Nobody is that good," the man snorted. "You are lying."

Peter opened the folder again, took out three photos and put them down. They were of McGrail and Stanger, guns drawn, standing in the living room of Mozzie's hidey hole. "Neal Caffrey is that good. And audio and video don't lie. You confessed here," he tapped the folder, "and just now to me for even additional crimes. You are done, Stanger, but you can minimize the damage by cooperating with me now. Tell me where Caffrey is."

"It's not going to matter," he said, "He's probably dead by now anyway."

"You had better hope he isn't," Peter growled, "Tell me where he is."

Stanger tried to hold Peter's gaze but only managed for a moment before looking away. After a moment more of Peter's intimidating stare, he gave up the address. Peter was up and on the way to the door in seconds.

"Even if he is alive, he won't be the man you knew before," Stanger called out to Peter's back, "They never are, you know."

Peter slammed the door behind him as Clinton Jones came out from the adjoining observation room.

"Have medical meet us," Peter said as he readied to go, and then, his voice dropped, "And get the crime scene people there, too."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

When Peter heard the shout from Jones, he knew he had found Neal. He backtracked the corridor he had just traversed and headed down the one Jones had taken. When he got to the door of the small room, something stopped him. It might have been the smell; sweat, vomit and something else he couldn't define. Neal's back was to him; he couldn't see his face. He was in a chair, hands behind him. He was motionless and shirtless. The markings on his back sent chills through Peter even though the room was stuffy. Discolored welts and bruising indicated a beating with a baton, or maybe a pipe. Jones was kneeling in front of the chair, facing Neal, his face taunt and drawn. When he looked up, Peter was sure they had arrived too late but he shook his head once to contradict the look on Peter's face. "He's alive." But the inflection on the word alive made Peter think that Jones didn't know how, or for how long.

Those words unanchored Peter's feet, and he rushed to where Jones was, ready to kneel himself in front of Neal and offer comfort. He wanted to let him know he had been rescued; he was safe. If the sight of Neal's bruised back had sent chills through Peter, the sight now sent daggers through his heart. The vomit that covered Neal's torso was blood tinged, and the discoloration and swelling in his mid-section indicated severe trauma. The face was down, chin resting on his chest, almost hidden by the dark hair hanging in front of it. There were the slightest rise and fall of his chest, but his breaths came rapidly. Peter put his hand gently to Neal's chin and raised his face. His lips were split, and blood had dried beneath his nose. There was a trail of blood down his face and throat that disappeared into the mess of vomit that covered his chest and lap. There was a bruise on his forehead and his chin. However, his face was remarkably less damaged than Peter would have expected. It had taken an only few blows; the rest of his body hadn't fared as well.

"Neal," Peter said urgently, "We're here, you are going to be okay."

Jones left his place beside Peter and moved behind Neal. "Hold him," he said, "I am going to cut him loose." Only seconds later, Peter felt Neal's body slump into his arms. Jones came back around and helped him lower him to the floor. The change in position seemed to help him breath better but he was so pale; his skin was almost translucent.

Peter pushed the matted hair from his face. "Neal," he said again, "You are safe now. No one is going to hurt you anymore." The lump in his throat rose so quickly that the last word sounded strange. He didn't expect any response but was surprised when the blue eyes opened.

"Neal," he said, relief flooding through him, "It's okay now. Everything is going to be okay." Seconds later his relief evaporated into more concern. He had expected to see pain and fear. But neither of those emotions played in the dull eyes. There wasn't even a spark of recognition; of relief at being rescued. Neal's eyes were open, but they were completely devoid of expression. Apathetic and listless, it was almost as if no one was there.

"Can you hear me?" Peter asked, brows furrowing. He placed his hand gently on Neal's cheek, urging him to look at him; hoping for recognition. The skin beneath his hand was cold and clammy and there still was no expression in the blue eyes. Peter had seen people suffering from shock, but this seemed more than that. Just as the Medics, whom Jones had called as soon as the basement had been cleared, came through the door, Neal's eyes closed. Peter and Jones both scrambled up to get out of the way.

The two men sat their equipment down "I'm assuming he's a victim of a violent crime," he said, taking stock of the room and then looking from Jones to Peter, "What's his name?"

"Neal," Peter said, his voice catching in his throat again. Violent crime; it was indeed that. "Neal Caffrey. He's a CI for the FBI. I am his handler."

The man nodded and turned back to his task. "Mr. Caffrey," he said rather loudly, using his penlight to check Neal's pupils. "Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?"

"Pupils are dilated," he reported to his partner, "he's unresponsive."

"Pulse is 110; respiration 28. Pale, clammy skin." He continued examining Neal for injury, then said, almost under his breath "What did they do to him?"

"Extensive blunt force trauma….burns here on his abdomen…bruising," the other man supplied, going down the list as he examined Neal.

Peter stood silently, listening to the serious tone of voice as the two men communicated to each other the condition of their patient. It sounded bad but Neal was alive, Peter reminded himself. How much longer he would have remained that way was debatable. Jones spoke from behind him.

"Peter." He tore his eyes away from Neal to Jones. With a gloved hand, he was holding up a black and white, 8 x 10 photo of Elizabeth. Taken from across the street on their block, she had been walking Satchmo. Peter felt his anger boil all over again.

"That bastard," he said between gritted teeth. He stepped over to where Jones was and glanced at the other items on the small narrow table. Neal's telephone and watch were there, along with a taser and a metal baton. In the floor, Neal's torn, bloody shirts lay in heaps.

"Pressure is low; Look at this." The medic's tone had changed, and Peter looked back. He was indicating the area on Neal's lower torso that Peter had seen before. "Abdominal swelling. Possible internal injury and hemorrhage. We need to push fluids and get him transported."

Almost on cue, two additional men arrived with a stretcher. "Let me get his IV started and we are ready to transport," one medic told the others. "There's no indication of spinal trauma but let's be cautious; use a neck brace and the backboard just in case." After a few more moments, Neal was ready to move.

"How bad?" Peter asked. He seemed to be having a hard time speaking; the words kept hanging up on the constant lump in his throat.

"Critical," the medic replied closing the top of an equipment box, snapping it into place and lifting it. "Internal injuries with probably internal bleeding. Liver, maybe spleen." He said, "They'll know more once they get him to the hospital." He looked at Peter curiously, "So you're his _handler_ did you say?"

"Yes," Peter said, watching as they carried Neal from the room, "but not just his handler, I am his friend."


	5. Chapter 5

_Posting early because I will be out of commission tomorrow. Thanks for reading the story and for all who take the time to post reviews. During the next few chapters, Peter's patience and emotional fortitude will be tested, and thus, the reader will be tested right along with him. Just fair warning._

 **Chapter Five**

The Crime Scene Unit was entering almost as the medics were leaving with Neal. Just in the moments he had been in the small room, Peter had done a quick survey of the scene himself. It was second nature to him as an agent. Neal's torn and bloody shirts lay in heaps on the floor. His shoes, too, had been removed and lay in one corner. There was a large patch of dried, dark liquid on the floor. Smaller patches were throughout the room. They didn't all look like blood, but Peter knew that Crime Scene would test them to determine their source. In addition to the chair, there were two tables in the room. One held items he had already seen; the other had other things Peter hadn't examined. There was also a hook in the center of the room with shackles hanging from it; just a brief glance revealed they were bloody. He hadn't looked at Neal's wrists when Jones had cut him loose, but he knew from the shackles they would be a mess. He didn't want to think about Neal hanging from the ceiling, enduring whatever McGrail and Stanger had subjected him to or how long that had taken place. It was while Neal hung there, he assumed, the baton had been used. Where and how the taser had been used was unknown; again Peter didn't want to know but was sure it would probably be revealed during the investigation. A terrible smell also permeated the small space. The entire scene made Peter sick to his stomach as did the memory of those brief moments when Neal's eyes had been open.

 _He won't be the man you knew before._ Stanger's words kept echoing through his mind. The look in Neal's eyes, or rather the absence of one, caused a deep sense of dread to close in on Peter. Part of him felt he should stay and process the scene, but a larger part felt he needed to be with Neal. Neal had been victimized for days; alone except for his tormentors. Even though Neal didn't look like he was aware of his surroundings, or even of Peter's presence, he had to believe that at some level or at some time, he would be. And when that time came, Peter wanted to be there. He wanted Neal to know that he was not alone.

Jones saw the look in Peter's face. "Go, Boss," he said, "We can take care of things here. You go make sure they take good care of Neal."

That was all the encouragement Peter needed. With a curt nod at Jones, he exited the room and bounded up the stairs to catch up with Neal.

wcwcwcwcwcwc

"Agent Burke?" The voice rousted Peter from sleep he didn't realize he had fallen into. A doctor loomed over him. A doctor who had apparently just exited surgery, judging from his clothing, hat and mask now hanging around his neck.

"I'm sorry," Peter stammered, trying to regain his composure. How long had he been asleep? He glanced at his watch. At least two hours had passed since he had last looked at the time. He started up, but the doctor's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"It's okay," he said kindly, "I'm Dr. Morrison, I performed Mr. Caffrey's surgery." He took a chair across from Peter and pulled it up closer before taking his place in it. Peter felt his chest tighten in fear at the look on the doctor's face. Whatever he had to say it wasn't good news.

"Is he alive?" Peter asked before the doctor could speak. He was afraid to ask, but he knew that was what the man was there; To tell him if Neal was alive or dead.

"He has survived surgery," the doctor's tone was not reassuring, but Neal was alive. Just this gave Peter a sense of relief. The way Neal had looked as they loaded him into the ambulance had given Peter doubts that he would even survive the trip. He had survived the trip, and now he had survived the surgery. "We had hoped we could repair the rupture to his spleen, but once we got in there, we realized it was damaged beyond repair. I had to perform a splenectomy. There were other internal injuries as well," the doctor continued, "some minor damage to the intestines and liver, but I feel confident that we were able to repair them."

"You removed his spleen and repaired the other internal injuries," Peter repeated, "But you don't sound optimistic."

"It's really too soon to be, Agent Burke," the doctor answered wearily, "Mr. Caffrey has several other injuries, but the most serious issue right now is that internal hemorrhaging sent his body into hypovolemic shock," he continued, "this complicates things because of the strain it put on his entire system," He paused, "The next twenty-four hours are critical. We will know more by then."

"What will we know?" Peter asked.

"Whether his system is going to fight back or give up," the doctor said simply. "If it does the former, then I will be cautiously optimistic about his prognosis."

"But if it does the other?"

"Then I am afraid his condition will rapidly deteriorate over the next few hours."

Peter felt a surge of something that made his former exhaustion melt away. Whether it was fear or anger he wasn't sure; perhaps a mixture of both.

"Neal doesn't give up," he snapped at the doctor, "he's a fighter. He just spent seventy-two hours in hell and still never gave up." At least, not until the end, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. He forced himself to forget the emptiness he had seen in Neal's eyes. Given a little time, given a chance to regroup, he knew Neal would fight. He didn't know how to do anything else. Giving up was not in his nature and if he had somehow forgotten that, Peter would be there to remind him. Neal never quit and Peter wouldn't let him quit now.

"That's good." If the doctor was surprised by Peter's outburst he didn't show it. "In some cases, we doctors can only do so much; sometimes it comes down to how much fight a person has in them." He paused, "If Mr. Caffrey is as much of a fighter as you think he his, that will increase his odds considerably."

"To what?" Peter asked. The doctor was silent a moment and when he spoke his voice was apologetic.

"Fifty-fifty."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

With the sobering odds from Dr. Morrison, Peter knew no matter how tired he was he was not leaving the hospital until Neal was out of immediate danger. The doctor assured him that as soon as Neal was out of recovery and moved into ICU, he would send a nurse out to get him. He had seemed reluctant at granting Peter's request to go back; the ICU had very limited visiting hours for a good reason.

"Agent Burke," he said, "I do not expect Mr. Caffrey to regain consciousness for some hours, In fact, we will be administering medication to keep him unconscious for at least the next twelve hours. His body has been through trauma; it needs rest."

"I understand," Peter said, "But I still want to be there." At the doctor's look he continued, "Do you have any idea what he's been through?" he hurried on before the doctor could answer "and I don't just mean physically. When he opens his eyes, he needs to see a familiar face."

"Get yourself a change of clothes and something to eat," the doctor suggested, glancing down at Peter's shirt front. "He won't be out of recovery for at least another couple of hours." He stood, and Peter followed suit. The doctor extended his hand, which Peter accepted. "Agent Burke, if Mr. Caffrey has family, it might be wise to make them aware of his condition." He paused, before adding, again almost apologetically "just in case."

The doctor left with that ominous statement. Recalling the doctor's glance, Peter looked down at his shirt. He hadn't noticed the questionable stains. They must have occurred when he had let Neal's body fall into his arms when Jones had cut him loose. At the sight of it, he again felt his stomach grow queasy. He tore his mind away from the way Neal had looked, slumped in a chair the middle of that smelly room and pulled out his phone. He had calls to make. First to Elizabeth, then to Mozzie and then to Jones.

"He's made it through surgery," he told Jones, "How are things going on your end?"

Jones was quiet a moment. "We found a body down there, Boss, stuffed in a closet."

"What?" Peter asked, "Who?"

"There was no ID; we're running his prints through AVIS. He was shot in the head, execution style."

Peter remembered the pungent odor of the room. "How long had he been there?"

"Couple of days," he supplied, "We're pretty sure he was shot in the room where Neal was, then dragged into the other room. That was likely the source for some of the blood we found."

Neal had lost blood, but his, for the most part, had been internal. The stains in the room had raised questions even in Peter's mind. "Okay, keep me informed, Jones, and bring me what you have when you have time. I'm going home to change, and then I will be back here."

Jones assured Peter that as soon as the scene had been processed, and all evidence was back at the lab, he would work up preliminary reports and bring them over.

Even knowing that he wouldn't be able to see Neal for a couple of hours, Peter found it difficult to leave the hospital. However, when he stepped into his living room and was enveloped in a hug from Elizabeth, he knew it had been the right move. Neal wasn't the only one who needed a familiar, friendly face. He squeezed her gratefully before remembering the condition of his clothing.

"Hon," he said, moving her gently away from him, "I'm a mess. Let me jump in the shower and change and I'll be right back down."

"How bad is it, Peter?" she asked, her eyes dark with concern. He had called her to let her know that Neal had made it through surgery and that he was on his way home. He avoided her questions at the time, promising more details in person once he got there. What should he say? The doctor was generous by giving Neal a fifty-fifty chance of survival? The doctor had told him to call in any family in case he didn't live? She wanted those details, but he didn't want to give them. He wanted to put the task off yet again.

"He's tough," he deflected, "If anyone can bounce back from this it's Neal." He kissed her cheek. "Heat me up some of that lasagna from last night while I get cleaned up." Peter stepped aside and started up the stairs. He heard her soft voice behind him.

"That wasn't an answer, Peter."

wcwcwcwcwcwcwcwwcw

Elizabeth was remarkably patient and let him eat a plate of lasagna and drink a glass of sweet tea before she asked about Neal again.

"I know it's bad, Peter," she said, "I could tell by your voice earlier and by looking at you now. Just tell me. I care about him too."

"I know you do, El," he answered. The temporary energy the shower had given him was already evaporating, and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion, "It's just…" he paused. It was more than what the doctor had said. It was what he had seen in that small room. It was what had been done to Neal over the past three days and worst of all, it was the look of blankness that he has seen in Neal's eyes. All those things together caused a sense of dread that felt like a physical object sitting in the pit of his stomach and a band squeezing at his heart. "The doctor said he has a fifty-fifty chance and we should know in the next twenty-four hours."

Her eyes filled with tears. "What did those men do to him, Peter?"

He didn't know at this point what Neal had endured during those long hours, but he had some idea. The doctor's reports would be able to provide more information. He would request those; he would need to know for the case against McGrail. But Elizabeth didn't need to know. She also didn't need to know that those same men had followed her, taken her photo and used it to torment Neal. "They hurt him, El," he reached over and squeezed her hand. "He was beaten and had internal injuries. The doctor had to remove his spleen."

Her breath caught in her throat, and the tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Does Mozzie know?"

Peter nodded, "I called him from the hospital and told him," he remembered the odd silence on the other end of the line when he had told Mozzie what the doctor had said. He had been braced for an angry outburst. After all, working for the FBI was what had put Neal into this situation. But no anger came. When he did speak Peter could tell he was fighting back tears, and he kept his words brief, simply thanking Peter for finding Neal, and for calling.

"I need to get back over there," Peter said, dragging himself from the chair. Elizabeth followed suit, the look of grief on her face changing to one of purpose. "I am going with you."

"No, El," Peter said, "He's not going to be awake for at least twelve hours. I will call you if…." He paused, "if anything changes. But they won't let you in there with him, and there is no sense in you sitting in the waiting room for hours on end. I will call you," He promised.

"Then why are you going back?" She asked, eyeing him carefully, "If he isn't awake you could stay here and get some rest. They can call when he wakes."

"The doctor said I could sit with him in ICU," Peter explained, "and I need to be there El, just in case he opens his eyes, he needs to see a friend." He felt that familiar knot in his throat rise and cut off his words.

"What are you not telling me, Peter?"

He took a deep breath. "I have this…this feeling, El, I don't know how to explain it." He began, "the doctor is afraid his body can't fight back, but I'm afraid-"

He stopped, and Elizabeth came over to him, grabbed both of his hands in hers. She looked up, her eyes urging him to continued,

"Afraid of what?" her voice was soft.

"They tortured him, Elizabeth, and when I found him in that basement, he looked at me, but…" _He won't be the man you knew before._

She didn't say anything but squeezed his hands in encouragement.

"It wasn't Neal," he stammered, pulling his hands from her grip, "It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger." He could hear the desperation in his voice. "He didn't even know me."

"You said he was badly hurt, Peter, he was probably in shock, disorientated," Elizabeth assured him. "I am sure when he wakes up again he will know you and be glad you are there."

 _If he wakes up,_ Peter corrected in his own head. Aloud he said, "I hope so. But I got to be there, El, I have to be there when he opens his eyes again."


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks for reading and reviewing._

 **Chapter Seven**

Neal had been moved from recovery into ICU by the time Peter arrived back at the hospital, Once he showed his identification, he was allowed back without any resistance from the staff. Dr. Morrison had left a note in Neal's chart that Agent Burke was allowed to be present outside of the regular visiting hours. He had cited 'Extenuating circumstances' as the reason.

The bruising on Neal's face had deepened somewhat, but having been cleaned up and dressed in clean clothing, he looked a considerable amount better than he had before. Lying so still and pale, he looked younger than usual, and the machines and wires made him look defenseless. That was too reminiscent of his appearance in the basement, causing the band around Peter's chest to tighten again.

He had requested Neal's medical records, the ER notes, and comments. After glancing over the main points, he understood the demeanor of the staff when they came into the room to check Neal, and understood the sympathetic looks he was receiving as well. It was clear they were aware of what the extenuating circumstances were.

The doctor's notes were clear and concise and defined medically what Neal had endured at the hands of McGrail and Stanger. Peter read the highlights, skipping over the longer medical passages full of the terminology he didn't hope to understand.

Contusions and abrasions on the subjects face, head, and body consistent with blunt trauma due to physical assault. Minor concussion. Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles consistent with restraint; most severe on the wrists. Radial damage to be determined.

Peter looked up from the reports. Neal hadn't moved; his chest rose and fell gently. He hadn't noticed his wrists in the basement but knew that they must have been damaged. They were now both swathed in bandages, lying motionless on the top of the blanket at his waist.

Blunt force trauma over eighty percent of the subject's body; various stages of bruising consistent with blows from a cylindrical object approximately an inch in diameter. Four bruised ribs; two fractured. Damage to the intestines, liver, and spleen.

There were several lines of medical terminology- thoracic injury from non-penetrating trauma-that Peter supposed had to do with Neal's ribs, followed by a several pages that dealt with Neal's various internal injuries, the most serious of which-Splenic rupture resulting in blood leakage into the abdominal cavity-dealt with the injury and subsequent removal of the spleen.

The next section summarized the injures that had been caused by the taser he had observed at the scene.

Wheal shaped first and second-degree burns (twenty-eight contact points) on the subjects torso consistent with contact from a stun gun on the subjects. Blisters and yellow crusting present. All superficial wounds in various stages of healing.

There was also a summary of Peter's initial comments to the attending about how Neal had sustained his injuries, including that he was had been abducted and subjected to physical abuse over a period of approximately seventy-two hours. It had been important for the Medics as well as the emergency room staff to know he had been the victim of a violent crime. That way, they were careful to keep samples and collect any evidence they came across, and also checked for all signs of abuse, including sexual. Thankfully, they had found nothing along those lines. However they had bagged Neal's clothing immediately for the Crime Scene Unit. He looked up when someone entered the room. It was a nurse doing her check on Neal's condition. She smiled at him.

"There is coffee at the nurse's station," she said, "feel free to help yourself."

"Thank you," Peter stood, needed to stretch his tired body anyway. He stepped nearer to Neal, on the opposite side of the bed where she was checking the monitors and making notes. He didn't say anything until after she had finished listening to Neal's breathing.

"How is he?" he asked quietly.

"He's holding his own," she answered, "His vitals are stable; lungs are clear." She glanced at Peter, "Every hour he stays this way is a good sign."

"He hasn't moved," Peter comment, "not even a twitch."

"That is because he is heavily sedated," she explained, "We are keeping him in that way to reduce the strain on his organs." She checked one of the iv's that hung from the stand, "He has about another eight hours to go and then we will discontinue and see how he responds."

"Will he wake up then?" Peter asked, looking at Neal's pale face. He desperately needed for him to wake up; to wake up and be Neal again. Irritating, aggravating and prone to not follow directions.

"Maybe," she replied, "but even without sedation it may take several hours for him to wake." She pulled down the blanket, moved the gown that covered Neal's midsection to the side, and proceeded to check the area around the surgical site. The sight of Neal's midsection took Peter off guard. He had read the details, but it didn't compare to seeing the baton marks, the bruises or the dozens of blisters covering his torso. He must have made a sound because the nurse looked up quickly in question, her expression changing immediately to understanding. "They will heal," she promised, replacing the gown to its place and pulling up the blanket again "they are shocking to see but superficial." She gently moved Neal's hands back on top of the blanket. She paused a moment, looking down at Neal's face.

"It amazes me what human beings can do to one other," she said, reaching down to adjust the oxygen tubing, and then almost as an afterthought, her hand moved to Neal's forehead. "I am afraid in cases like this it's injuries that don't show that are the hardest to recover from." She looked back to Peter. "It's good of you to sit with him like this, Agent Burke," she said, "but does he have any family at all? Anyone that would make him feel safe?" She again looked at Neal, "After what he's been through he's going to need that more than anything."

"No biological family," Peter answered, "but I am as close to family as he has," he paused before adding firmly, "If he sees me when he wakes up, he will _know_ he is safe."

"Then it's good you are here," She took the clipboard she had been scribbling on and started out of the glass doors that separated Neal's room from the rest of the ICU. "I've got to chart this into the system," she explained, "Remember: Coffee at the nurses station if you are interested, or I can bring you a pillow and an extra blanket." She nodded to the chair he had been sitting in. "It reclines you know. You could get a few hours before his medication runs out."

"Coffee now, pillow later," Peter answered with a weary smile.


	8. Chapter 8

_Posting early since I work the weekend..._ _Thanks for reading and reviewing._

 **Chapter Eight**

The pillow had been a good idea and the chair was remarkably comfortable. Peter wasn't sure if that was true or if a concrete floor would have been equally restful at this point.

Movement had awakened him but it wasn't Neal, it was from the nurse who was checking him. Her face was unfamiliar; the shift had changed. He released the lever on the chair, bringing it back down to its upright position. He was a bit embarrassed that he had been stretched out, probably snoring, while hospital personnel entered and exited the room. He looked at his watch; Seven fifteen. He looked at the IV's hanging above Neal; sure enough, one was missing. The medication to keep him sedated was gone. It had been scheduled to discontinue at five that morning.

"How is he doing?" he asked, his voice hoarse with sleep. He needed coffee.

"Remarkably well," she said, "His vitals are strong. He's seems to be responding well since the sedatives have been discontinued." She looked back down at Neal, "His respiration and heart rate are returning to normal. We have to monitor him closely for signs of infection or complications from the procedure, especially for the next ten hours."

Peter rose, stiffly, and stepped near to the bed. Neal didn't look like he had shifted positions in the least. "When will he wake up?"

"When he's ready," she answered, "Agent Burke, isn't it?"

He nodded and she continued. "I wasn't on yesterday, but they tell me you have been here since he came in." she glanced down at the chart she held. "extenuating circumstances with permission from the doctor to ignore the visitation policy."

"There are perks to being an FBI agent," he said with a smile.

"I was given a briefing on his case by the charge nurse when I came on," she said, "As well as what those extenuating circumstance were." She looked at Neal, "He is doing amazingly well and I can see why you don't want him waking up alone." She paused, "but it could still be hours before he regains consciousness. Perhaps you should take a break-go home. If we start seeing any indication that he might be waking up, I promise we will give you a call."

"I'll get some coffee," Peter said, "and I'll be good for a while longer. If he doesn't come around by lunch or so, I'll go home, get a shower and see my wife. I just need for him to wake up; I need to make sure he's still there."

At her look of curiosity, he realized what he had actually said. "I mean, to make sure he's okay."

"That's not what you said," she stated. "What's bothering you, Agent Burke?"

Peter sighed at her perceptiveness. "When we found him, he was conscious for a just a couple of minutes," he explained, "but something was wrong; it wasn't that he was delirious or confused or something. I could deal with that. He wasn't anything. There was this….emptiness in his eyes." He stopped, and smiled although the memory was anything but funny, "You've heard the saying 'the lights are on but nobody is home?' Well, that is exactly what it was like."

"There is no indication of brain damage or injury," she assured him, "and there are several things that could cause a lack of responsiveness. Shock symptoms can present that way," she continued. "Its also possible that he wasn't actually conscious. Sometimes a patient's eyes can be open but they are not lucid or aware of their surroundings."

"I know all that," Peter said, "But I just have this bad feeling and I don't think it's going to go away until he wakes up and I see that he is really okay, you know?"

"I do," she smiled, "You go get some coffee. He's vitals are good but it doesn't look like he is about to wake up so eat some breakfast while you are at it."

He needed coffee and he needed to call Elizabeth. It was still too early to harass Jones about those reports but that was on his list, too.

"Okay," he said, "I'll go do that. I need to stretch my legs anyway." He stepped to the door but looked back at Neal. She saw his hesitancy.

"I promise, you're number is right there on the board-I will call if anything happens."

They didn't have to call him; just as he had hoped it would be, he was sitting beside Neal when his eyes opened. He had pulled up a straight chair and left the recliner for the night time hours. Peter didn't actually see his eyes open; he just glanced up and saw the blue eyes were open. He had made no sound, but as Peter read over Jones report he kept looking up at Neal, willing him to open his eyes. He had just read preliminary forensics on Neal's shirt; traces of blood and brain matter were found. He realized in horror that the man, now identified as a low life who did freelance work where ever he could find it, had been executed in front of Neal. In fact, according to the report, directly in front of him. Neal would turn pale at the sight of a dead body across the room, under a sheet; Peter could only imagine how traumatizing witnessing an execution had been. When he looked up, Neal's eyes were open.

"Hey there," he said, quickly putting down the folder and rising from his chair. His smile quickly faded when Neal did not react to his greeting. He didn't even shift his head. Peter moved his head down, putting his face in Neal's line of sight. "Neal," he tried to keep the pleading tone out of his voice but didn't quite succeed, "Please look at me, Neal." He felt a glimmer of hope when Neal moved; his head shifted as did his hand on the bed. When Peter straightened, Neal's head moved as if to follow him. But there was still no look of recognition in his eyes; they were just as empty as they had been in the basement. Peter felt the familiar tightness around his chest; the heaviness of dread in his stomach. Neal turned his head to the side, no longer even looking in Peter's direction. Peter reached down, and with his hand on Neal's chin, gently turned him to face him. There was no resistance. "Can you hear me?" Peter asked, his eyes boring into the blue ones in search of his friend "Neal?" There was no answer; there was nothing. Neal stared past him, unaware that he was even there. Peter released his grip on Neal's chin, After a moment; the blue eyes closed again. Peter let out a shaky breath; what he had feared most had happened. Neal's eyes had opened, but his friend was still not there.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks for reading and reviewing. Hang in there...it will be worth it, at least, I hope so :) There are fifteen chapters, just so you know._

 _I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter Nine**

"You were correct in your observations," Dr. Myers stated. He had invited Peter into an empty conference room, and they had each taken a chair near the end of the long table. "We have determined that Mr. Caffrey's state of unresponsiveness is a psychosomatic problem brought on by his recent trauma."

Medical personnel had assured him that Neal's initial lack of response at the scene had simply been a symptom of shock and trauma. After he had awakened in the ICU, they attributed it to a side effect of the medication. According to them, all indications was that Neal was doing well, he slept a lot, but he was improving. But whenever he did wake, Peter could tell something was very, very wrong.

As his physical condition improved, and he was more often awake, the hospital staff began to suspect that Peter's fear was founded. Neal did not respond to questions, nor did he respond to requests. He simply stared. He was also very still; he never even shifted body position. The only movement was the movement of his head, and occasionally, his hands. Peter explained that this, too, was very unlike Neal. If Neal was conscious he was moving, even if he was just fidgeting. When his lack of unresponsiveness didn't improve, Dr. Myers, a psychologist, had been consulted.

"I have read Mr. Caffrey's previous psych eval," he paused, looking at Peter, "this doesn't seem to fit with the current information I have."

Peter knew to what evaluations the doctor was referring. "I know Neal tested that way, but I am telling you, he is not a sociopath. He puts on a show," he tried to explain, "He doesn't express his feelings like most people. He's guarded; he's had to be. But his detachment, his coolness," Peter shook his head, "its all an act, part of his con man ruse. He cares about people. He's loyal to his friends, and he hates violence."

"These tests evaluate a subject's personality traits, Agent Burke, not necessarily their behavior. A sociopath wouldn't endure physical abuse to protect someone else." He looked at Peter. "So I agree with you about Mr. Caffrey on that topic as well. Now, on to my evaluations," he continued, shuffling through the file in front of him. "Early test did not show brain injury or any physical reasons for his lack of responsiveness, but I completed a neurologic examination just to verify those findings."

"What does that mean?" Peter knew his state of exhaustion was not helping his comprehensive skills. But even fully rested he doubted he could follow psycho babble.

"Its an examination of pupillary response, muscle tone, reflexes, and frontal release signs." He explained. "I assessed his response to stimulation, from light touch to deeper stimuli, as well as noxious but nonpainful stimulus. Due to his past trauma, I did not try to use rapid movement or a startle to elicit a response."

Psycho babble. "And what did all that tell you?"

The doctor did not answer his question but continued "I also have had staff observe Mr. Caffrey's reactions when people enter his area to….."

"That's the problem," Peter interrupted, frustration spilling over, "He _isn't_ reacting. He just stares off into space like a zombie."

"A person reacts in many ways," Dr. Myers corrected, his voice remaining calm in spite of Peter's agitation. "Mr. Caffrey _is_ reacting to external stimuli. Its minimial but he is aware of what is going on around him. He avoids eye contact," he explained. "When something comes directly into his line of sight, he shifts his head position, or simply closes his eyes. Also, staff has monitored his vital signs, and they also react when people come and go. These things tell us that he's aware of what is going on around him but is choosing to not respond to it."

"What," Peter felt his frustration change to anger, "you think he's just ignoring everyone? Have you looked _in his eyes_?"

"Agent Burke," the doctor said, "I have looked into his eyes," his voice was sympathetic, "He has blunted affect; he has withdrawn from his surroundings, and it's not something he is doing consciously. I think his state is a psychic response to the traumatic events he has recently experienced. He is simply bringing to the extreme the avoidance, numbness and lack of response often encountered in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

Peter was familiar with that term. During his years in law enforcement, he had seen many officers suffer from PTSD. Most came back with counseling; a few did not. One Captain, in particular, after seeing a teenager gunned down in front of him, had taken early retirement. Neal had witnessed a man executed in front of him; had been splattered with his blood. Could Neal come back from this?

"But the PTSD symptoms I've encountered with officers suffering from it was mostly flashbacks," Peter remarked, "like a person freaking out when a car backfired or something. I've never seen anyone just blank out like Neal has."

"Blunted affect, or emotional numbness," the doctor explained, "is a consequence of withdrawal from the external environment." He paused, eyeing the stack of papers in front of him "I have seen his injuries and read the reports: Mr. Caffrey was brutalized for an extended period. He was in great distress both physically and emotionally and at some point, he simply couldn't cope. He withdraw inside himself to survive. And that is where he still is."

Peter let out a deep breath. "So what is the treatment? How do we get him back?"

The doctor leaned back, "There are drug regiments I could prescribe, but its only been forty-eight hours since he was brought in. He has been through intense physical and emotional trauma. I think I need to give him a little more time before taking that route."

"So we do nothing?" Doing nothing was not working in Peter's opinion.

"No, Agent Burke," he replied, " _I_ do nothing. I think _you_ can do a lot."

"I don't understand," Peter stated, "I can't do anything. He won't talk to me. He won't even look at me."

"I told you that my staff had been observing Mr. Caffrey?" the doctor asked. At Peter's nod he continued, "Anytime anyone enters his area, his vitals go up; his heart rate, respiration and blood pressure all rise. Even if he does not respond, or even open his eyes, his body _does_ respond. It goes into a hyper-vigilant state and remains there until they leave."

"Is he scared?" Peter asked quietly. The thoughts of Neal afraid in his silence was heartbreaking. It was too much like what Peter imagined he had suffered in that dingy basement two days before.

"Very possibly," the doctor admitted, "but he is definitely distressed when anyone is in the room with him. Except for you."

Peter eyebrows raised in surprise, "Really?"

"Yes, Agent Burke," the doctor said, "When you entered his room earlier, his vitals shot up just like they do with everyone else, but when he heard your voice they began to return to normal."

Peter hadn't been in Neal's room long before the Dr. had come. He had found Neal much as he had left him, staring and still. He asked him how he was feeling, not expecting an answer since the blankness of his eyes remained. He took his seat and told him that Elizabeth sent her love and would be to see him as soon as he was in a room. He even told him he had been to the office to check on the progress of the case. He talked to him, but Neal showed no indication that he heard him or was even aware he was there. Or so he had thought.

"When he heard my voice," Peter repeated. In spite of the blankness in his eyes, Neal could at least hear him. "Does he understand what I am saying?"

"It's unclear how much of what he hears he is able to process right now," the doctor admitted, "but the important thing is that he recognizes your voice and equates that with safety."

"I just have to keep talking to him." The weariness in his voice didn't even come close to the weariness he felt.

The doctor nodded, "Yes," He stood and picked up the papers. "He needs you to tell him that he's going to be okay, that he is healing, he's not alone and most importantly, that he is safe."

Peter knew that would he harder than it sounded. He had choked up on similar words as he crouched in front of Neal in that basement. He had tried to talk to Neal since he had regained consciousness in the ICU-about the case, Elizabeth's new client, even Mozzie's hospital-phobia, but with no response, no acknowledgment, his conversations had fizzled out. But if Neal needed to hear those things from him, even if it did choke him up, he would say them. "Then what?" Peter asked.

"Keep telling him, Agent Burke," the doctor advised, "It might take some time. He withdrew inside himself because that was the only safe place he had to go; only when he feels safe out here will he come back."


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks for reading and reviewing, and suffering along side Peter. He's exhausted and frustrated with the lack of change in Neal's condition and I suspect you all feel the same. But he is determined to stick it out :) This chapter is a bit short, but that's just the way it turned out._

 **Chapter Ten**

The idea that Neal had withdrawn inside himself was not that foreign to Peter once he had thought about it. The doctor had called what Neal was doing extreme avoidance, and Neal had always avoided dealing with emotional subjects or feelings. He didn't talk about them, deflected questions about them and distracted himself from feeling them when they intruded on his mind. Sometimes he would get obsessive about a case. Sometimes he would run until he was exhausted. Peter was sure that sometimes, his painting helped to ease bothersome thoughts. But his way of avoiding always involved movement; always contained motion.

Neal had had the presence of mind to direct McGrail and Stanger to Mozzie's safe house, so he had been communicating at that point; it was after that he had shut down. It was after that he had been left over four hours, tied to a chair, in a room reeking of death. It occurred to Peter for the first time that it wasn't the torture itself that had broken Neal; it was being left alone afterwards.

That thought made Peter want to rush straight to him, but the doctor had informed him, since passing the twenty-four hour critical mark, Neal was being moved into a step down room. Still in the intensive care unit, it was not in the fishbowl directly across from the nurses station that he had been. Peter would have to wait until he had been settled into the new room before he could visit.

The doctor had also let him know that if all went well, in twenty four hours Neal would be moved from the ICU to a private room. Whether that room would be on the seventh floor was still to be determined. Peter knew that was there the hospital's psych ward was located and he didn't want Neal going there. Needing fortification before he tackled the task ahead of him, he placed a call.

Elizabeth offered to come straight over to help but Peter knew she was dealing with a very particular client, finalizing details for a weekend event. She had already planned to visit after work, knowing that the visiting rules would be more lax with Neal's move into the step down. Peter assured her that he just wanted a couple words of encouragement.

"Its just hard to talk to him when he is like this, El," Peter admitted, "The doctor says he can hear me and he thinks I can help by talking to him."

"You might be the only person who can help him, Peter. Remember when he told you that you were the only person in his life he trusted?"

"Yes." Neal had been drugged out of his mind when he said it but Dr. Myers had in essence said the same thing just moments before. Neal equated Peter with safety; he trusted him.

"After what he's experienced, he needs someone he can trust," she continued, "You already knew that; that's why you've hardly left his side for three days."

"I do know that," Peter acknowledged, "But looking in his eyes; he's like a stranger. It's like Neal isn't even there anymore."

"He's in there somewhere," she said firmly, "he might be hiding from the world but he's in there. You always claim you can find him no matter where he runs to; so prove it. Go find him."

Neal's eyes were closed when Peter entered his room. It was almost a let down; Peter had been working himself up for a heart to heart and Neal wasn't even conscious. He didn't know if he should pull up a chair and wait or take a walk and come back later. Somehow, sitting there watching and waiting for him to wake up seemed like something Peter couldn't handle anymore. Remembering what the doctor had told him, he glanced up at the monitor above Neal's head that displayed his vitals. Keeping his eyes on them, he reached down and gently grasped Neal's forearm.

Just in moments, there was a change. The numbers began to rise; his heart rate first, then respiration. He didn't move or open his eyes, but he was aware that someone had entered; someone was touching him. That was all Peter needed to know.

"How you doing, buddy?" he squeezed Neal's arm in reassurance, "I had some errands to run but I am back now." he glanced up at the monitor. Just as the doctor had told him, Neal's vitals began to drop back into their normal range at the sound of his voice. "The doctors say that you are healing nicely and getting stronger. You should be in a regular room in another day, and maybe even get to go home a few days after that."

He left Neal momentarily to pull the chair up close to the bed. Sitting down just on the edge, he reached up and this time took Neal's hand in his own. He had never felt so mentally depleted in his life, but Neal needed him. He took a deep breath.

"Neal," he squeezed the limp hand, "I know you hear me and but I want you to _listen_ to me. I know you have been through a…a terrible ordeal" the word was a lame description for what Neal had endured "but you're safe now. Do you understand? _You Are Safe_. You were strong and brave and you _survived_ everything they did to you."

There were no signs of encouragement from Neal but he hadn't expected any. He wasn't the one in need of encouragement; Neal was. "McGrail and Stanger were both arrested," he continued, "They are in custody as we speak." At the mention of their names, Peter did note that Neal's heart rate increased. It was only slightly so he wasn't sure that it was due to his words or not. He continued.

"No matter what they did to you, still you outsmarted them." Peter swallowed. "You _beat_ them Neal, and they are going away for the rest of their lives. They can never do that to anyone ever again."

There was no additional response to his words; the eyes remained closed. Peter had been warned it would take time. It would take patience and persistence; the same things it had taken to find Neal Caffrey in the first place. And Peter, very capable of both, was determined to be up to the task.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for reading and for all the reviews. Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility. :)_

 **Chapter Eleven**

It was hard to keep talking but not because Neal didn't seem to be responding. In fact, as Peter found himself choking on the lump that seemed to have taken up residence in his throat he thought maybe it was better that Neal's eyes weren't open. Those empty blue eyes would have made the pain in his chest even worse, and the lump may have brought his words to a complete halt.

The threat of tears had come again when Peter admitted, even though he had a pretty good idea what McGrail had done to Neal physically, he couldn't imagine what emotional abuse he had endured. He had stopped, swallowing hard, when the door opened, and staff arrived for rounds. Peter struggled to regain composure, letting go of Neal's hand and rising from his perch on the chair.

"Mr. Caffrey," the woman said as she entered, dismissing Peter with a glance. Her voice seemed excessively loud, but Peter realized that his voice had remained hushed during his recent monolog. "How are we doing this afternoon?" She continued. Neal's vital signs responded to the raised voice by elevating, and Peter placed his hand on Neal's forehead and leaning near, spoke gently.

"It's okay, Neal," he said reassuringly, "It's just the nurse. She's not going to hurt you," He looked up and met the Nurse's questioning gaze, "She's here to take care of you; to make sure you're doing okay." After he had finished, he stepped back out of her way.

"That's right, Neal," She had paused slightly before deciding to use his first name instead of Mr. Caffrey. Her voice had also taken on a quieter tone. "I just need to check your vitals, your medications, and your incision. Will you open those eyes for me?"

Peter had not seen this nurse during his long sojourn at in the ICU, and he didn't now how familiar she was with Neal's situation. He imagined she had been briefed on his medical history and at least the basics of how his injuries had occurred. "You've been sitting here talking to him for over an hour," she commented quietly, looking at Peter curiously, "have you gotten any response from him?"

This told Peter that she was aware not only of the medical issues but the psychological challenges as well. "No," he admitted, "He won't open his eyes for me, either."

"Well, I got to have a look at those baby blues either way," she stated and proceeded to check Neal's pupils. "Both reactive." She glanced at Peter and added quietly, "He's playing possum."

He nodded silently, having come to the same conclusion himself. She continued to check his vitals, stating her findings aloud as she jotted them down. Once finished with that task, she set about her other duties, explaining to Neal what she was doing and why it was necessary at every point.

"Everything is looking good, Mr. Caffrey," she said, "They will probably be bringing some soft food in for you to try a little later." She looked at Peter "Jello. We need to start getting some oral nourishment into him if we can."

Peter thanked the nurse and promised he would use the call button if they needed anything. At this point, what he needed wasn't something ringing a call bell could help him with. He thought about following her out; he needed a break. Elizabeth would be there in another hour or so. She hadn't been to see Neal yet, but he knew she would do a better job comforting him than he could. After all, he had been blabbering on for over an hour with no results. Elizabeth was good at things like that. She always seemed to know exactly what to say to make someone feel at ease. Maybe she would be able to reach him. With ducking out until reinforcements arrived in mind, Peter glanced back at Neal. His breath caught in his throat; he had opened his eyes.

He was afraid that when he moved back near the bedside Neal would simply close them again, but that didn't happen. The blue eyes stayed open, vacant, but open. Neal's gaze was in the general direction of the door, and Peter's movement didn't cause that gaze to shift in the least. He kept his voice quiet, moving himself nearer the foot of the bed and into Neal's line of sight. "You heard the nurse," he said conversationally, his eyes locking onto Neal's "everything is looking good. You are going to be okay, Neal." Neal's head shifted, effectively moving his gaze from the direction of the door to the direction of the in-room sink. Had the doctor not pointed it out, Peter wouldn't have seen the slight adjustment as anything but incidental movement. But now he recognized it for as what it was: a response to his having moved into Neal's line of sight. He thought about simply moving into it again, but decided against it. Instead, he returned and took his place in the chair he had previously vacated.

Tentatively, he reached up, again taking Neal's limp hand in his own. "You are safe now," he began, "I'm right here with you. You are not alone." The head didn't move; it was still turned slightly in the other direction, but the eyes remained open. Peter continued, encouraged by that fact. "I know you were….hurt badly, Neal," he said, struggling to keep his voice even, "but the doctors fixed you up. You are healing, and things will be back to normal very soon." He only hoped that was true. "McGrail and Stanger, their lives are over." Hardness crept into his voice, "They are going to spend the rest of their miserable lives locked up. Their lives are over, Neal, yours is not."

"I don't know how much you understand about what I am saying," He paused, choosing his words carefully, "I know you are just trying to protect yourself from the world right now, and after…after everything that happened to you I can see why." He stopped and swallowed the lump that had risen again in his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was strained. "But you don't have to protect yourself from me, or Elizabeth, or any of those of us who love you. You are safe with us. _Please come back."_

After those words, he sat in silence with an ache in his throat he knew was the result of the continued swallowing of tears that wanted to fall. The longer this process took, the more Peter was afraid he would lose that battle. After everything that had happened over the past days, Neal being taken, listening to McGrail and Stanger brag about what they had done to him, the reports he had read, his own stress and lack of sleep and Neal's empty, vacant eyes, he was emotionally drained himself. Taking a moment, trying to get a grip, didn't seem to be working. He kept swallowing, and the ache was just growing stronger. He suddenly realized that he wasn't going to be able to hold it together; he was too exhausted. Even Peter Burke had his limits.

"I'll be right back, Neal," he stammered, rising suddenly from his chair "I need to step out just a minute." He was going to lose it. He was going to break down, and he needed to be alone. When he started to move, to make his escape, he felt Neal's grip tighten around his hand. He looked in surprise at Neal's face. His eyes hadn't changed direction; they still looked away, but his cheeks were wet. He hadn't made a sound or maybe since Peter was battling his own tears he simply hadn't heard one. His grip on Peter's hand was firm. _That_ was a response Peter recognized without a doctor's interpretation.

With a shaky breath, he eased himself back into his chair. He didn't try to hold back the tears that had started to stream down his face. There was no use anyway. "I'm right here, Neal," he choked out, squeezing Neal's hand in return, "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."


	12. Chapter 12

_Since the story is actually finished, it is quite difficult to stick with my chapter-every-other-day schedule. I know how hard it is to be left wanting more in a story, but I am working on my next story (Apres Moi, my first post-series story) and am buying time to finish it. Plus, reviews keep me inspired and make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. :) Thank you all for sticking it out: as a reward, here is FINALLY a little Neal POV._

 **Chapter Twelve**

 _Peter was upset._ It was the first thought that pierced through into Neal's mind enough to instigate him to wonder where he _was_ and _why_ Peter was upset.

Where ever he was, Peter was with him. His voice had been a low, comforting hum; steady and continuing. It made where ever he was a pleasant place to be. He wasn't thinking, or worrying or even plotting. He didn't care where he was or even why he was there. It was nice to not care. He wanted to stay where he was, in that peaceful place where nothing intruded upon his mind but the sound of Peter's voice. His words were unclear; Neal didn't understand them nor did he have the interest to try. But at some point something had changed. The peaceful feeling Peter's voice had brought to his dreamlike state had shifted to an uneasy one.

He had been resting-was it resting?-in a nice place. He felt warm and comfortable, and the bed beneath him was soft. His mind drifted in and out, much like that moment between awake and sleep. He wasn't sure how long he had been there, his mind disengaged. But that was passing now, he feared. He could feel a wetness on his face. He tried to recall anything from before; he remembered the vague, droning on of voices and being jostling or shifted around. He was now aware of an insistence beeping noise. The fogginess of his mind made his thought process slow but after a moment he realized he was in a hospital. He could see the room in front of him. He wasn't sure when he had opened his eyes. Neal had enjoyed the nothingness but now that he had left that behind, he felt himself growing confused and uneasy.

Peter was speaking again; his voice was strained. He said he needed to go; he was leaving. This caused fear to rise in Neal's mind, but he couldn't find his voice to protest. But he was aware of Peter's hand in his own and, before Peter could move away, he gripped it tightly.

Peter stopped. He squeezed Neal's hand in return and said he wouldn't leave. He didn't say anything more, but his grip remained firm on Neal's hand and Neal held on, afraid that if he didn't Peter would change his mind. No words came, but there were sounds. Neal heard an odd intake of breath several times, and then sniffing. Peter was upset but more than that; Peter was crying.

Peter didn't cry and neither did he and yet he could feel tears slipping down his face and hear Peter quietly weeping beside him. Something was very, very wrong. He could feel warning bells in his mind, telling him that he didn't want to know why he was here or why Peter was upset. He closed his eyes, trying to go back to that peaceful place he had been before, but it was no use. Peter was crying; there was no peaceful place anymore. He needed to know what had happened and what was wrong, so he took tentative steps back into his memory for answers. He could feel a panic inside him that urged him to stop, but he didn't. He pressed on.

Like a tidal wave, memory swept over him: McGrail. McGrail had taken him.

A series of flashes went through his mind that made him gasp for breath. The terrible pain he had endured, more terrible things he had seen; being cramped in the closet with….that man. Neal closed his mind against the image of the man's face; a face that was no longer a face but a mass of bone, blood and gore. He tried to block the smell that now seemed to choke him. Death, death all around him. He tore his mind from that horrific sight but then it was replaced by Elizabeth. Elizabeth standing in front of him, crying, McGrail behind her, holding a gun to the back of her head.

 _"Do something, Neal," she begged, "don't let him kill me."_

Neal's struggle to free his hands was futile; the more he struggled the tighter the grip seemed to be. She was only feet away from him, but he couldn't do anything to save her.

 _"It's your fault, Caffrey," McGrail said, "She has to die because of you."_

He tried to speak, to beg and plead for her life, but his voice only made a moaning, broken sound. No words would form. He couldn't breath; his heart was pounding as if it would come out of his chest. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the sound of the shot and the feeling of warmth to splash across his face.

He knew why Peter was crying. Elizabeth was dead, and it was his fault. With that realization, he slipped back into darkness, hoping he would never leave it again.

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Peter didn't know how long he sat there with tears escaping his eyes and finding their way down his face. He had been holding them back for so long that when they finally fell he felt great relief. Whether it was relief from the battle or relief because Neal was gripping his hand, he didn't know. He wasn't much of a crier, and on rare occasions when he was, he wasn't a noisy one. And he wasn't now either, except for the occasional sniffle. The grip on his hand hadn't relaxed; Neal still held on tightly. Moving would mean he would have to let go, and Peter wasn't about to disengage to retrieve a tissue. He would just sniff.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a sound from Neal. He had been silent and still; but suddenly he gasped. It was a sound of surprise or pain, and Peter rose from his place and looked at him in concern. His eyes were now closed tightly, and he was gasping for air. Peter didn't need the beeping to tell him that his heart rate was rising as well. Fearing a complication, he hit the call button.

"Something's wrong!" he responded when the nurse answered the buzz.

Neal's hand pulled from his grasp, and both hands began to thrash about on top of the blanket. Peter grabbed them in his own, afraid the movement would dislodge the IV. Neal struggled against his grasp, a terrible sound escaping his parted lips.

"Neal," Peter said urgently, "Its okay. It's me. It's Peter. Please calm down. You are going to hurt yourself." He held to Neal's hands even though they kept slipping, and he had to keep adjusting his grasp. His wrists would have been a more effective hold, but Peter refused to grab them, still heavily bandaged from their previous damage.

The hospital staff arrived, the nurse accompanied by two others. She looked at Peter as she approached Neal. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he answered, still holding Neal's hands in his own, "he just started…freaking out."

She nodded to one of the orderlies. "Restrain him." Before the man could take two steps to the cabinet to retrieve restrains, Peter was objecting.

"No," he shook his head firmly, "No way. I will stand here and hold his hands if I have to, but you will not restrain him. Not after what he's been through."

"Okay," a look at the orderly stopped him in his tracks and she directed her attention back to Neal. Peter was glad that his struggle was losing its strength, but he retained his grip as the nurse checked his vitals. He moaned weakly, his head shifting on the pillow.

"Can you give him something?" Peter asked, desperate for Neal to have relief from what ever pain he was experiencing.

She finished her tasks and then touched Neal's face. She looked up at Peter in surprise. "Are these tears?" she asked, "Was he crying, Agent Burke?"

Peter didn't say that they both had been, but he guessed his face already betrayed the fact. He simply nodded, releasing Neal's now stilled hands.

"This is excellent," she looked pleased but at his look of disbelief she explained further, "This is what we've been hoping for, a return of cognitive functions. He is bound to have confusion, even panic as the memory of what happened comes back to him. This is progress, Agent Burke."

It didn't feel like progress to Peter;he could feel his insides trembling. He looked helplessly at Neal, who had grown both still and silent, exhausted by his outburst."So he's not in pain?"

"I don't think he's in physical pain," she replied. Peter knew what that distinction implied.

"What now?"

"You keep doing what you've been doing, Agent Burke," she answered, "You keep throwing a life line out to him and sooner or later he'll find the courage to grab it."

Peter's level of exhaustion, both physically and mentally, had never been higher. The shakiness of his voice horrified him. "I honestly don't know how much more of this I can handle."

"Then it's a good thing I am here." Peter looked up. Relief flooded him at the sight of Elizabeth standing in the doorway. Reinforcements had arrived.


	13. Chapter 13

_Many thanks for all the reviews and kind words. They make me a happy writer!_

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Neal didn't want to wake up; he never wanted to wake. Because of him Elizabeth was dead. Her beautiful face erased by a bullet. She had begged him to save her, and he had failed her. When he had remembered what he had done, he just wanted to die himself. But he hadn't. He was still alive and worse than that; he was again becoming aware of the fact. Memories flooded his mind.

 _"She has to die because of you."_

"I think he's waking up," It was Peter; he was still here. He remembered Peter saying that he wouldn't leave him and Peter was always true to his word. Before the memories had come back, when he had been in blissful numbness, Peter's voice had offered him comfort and peace. Now, just the thought of Peter tore at his heart. He felt his chest constrict with fear. He couldn't face Peter. He could never face him again. He clenched his eyes in self-defense.

"Neal, sweetie," that voice _wasn't_ Peter's. "Please open your eyes. You are safe now."

The voice was painfully familiar to him but it wasn't possible. Things had been so confused in his mind, and now he was hearing Elizabeth's voice when he knew she could never speak again. She had been stuffed in the closet; he had been there with her, her dark hair streaming across her formless face, just inches away from his own. She was dead because of him. Because he tried something, and it didn't work. Peter had always told him he pushed his luck and that one day it wouldn't come through for him. That day had occurred and had cost Elizabeth her life.

"You know better than to ignore El," Now he heard Peter again, "she won't stop until you do what she tells you." He didn't sound upset, and Neal's confusion only increased.

"They say you have to eat, Neal," again, that sounded like Elizabeth, "and you know that I can bring you something very tasty to try but you have to open your eyes."

The fear he felt, such great fear, was suddenly tempered with a ray of hope. But hope could be a dangerous thing. It changed perception and offered comfort when there was no comfort to be had. Just because you desperately wanted something to be true did not make it so. Just because he wanted to hear Elizabeth's voice didn't mean he was actually hearing it.

"He's still in ICU, El," Peter was saying, "I don't think they will let him have anything but jello."

"Jello is boring, Peter," she replied, "Neal doesn't do boring. And they said _full_ liquid, not _clear_ liquid. I can bring him a puréed potato soup that will please his delicate palate."

Pureed potato soup? His delicate palate? Who would say something like that except Elizabeth? But how was that possible? How could Elizabeth be here, talking about Potato Soup when he had seen her die?

The good-natured banter continued around him. Hope slowly overcame the fear, and tentatively, he opened his eyes. He could see Elizabeth and Peter. They weren't looking at him; they were looking at each other. She looked beautiful; Peter, well, Peter looked tired. They were on opposite sides of his bed. Both of them were there, but again, how could that be?

He must have made a sound because suddenly, both sets of eyes were fixed upon his. He felt overwhelmed with the contact. What he knew and what he saw did not add up. Fear overcame him again and he closed his eyes tightly.

Someone took his hand in theirs. "Neal," the voice was soft as was the hand that held his, "It's me, its Elizabeth. I know you are there, sweetie. Don't be afraid. Please, please open your eyes."

He couldn't remember all that had happened when McGrail took him; he didn't even know how long he had been there. The memories he had, horrible memories, didn't seem to follow any pattern or timeline. He remembered Elizabeth being killed, but he could now hear her voice, urging him to open his eyes. It was hard, but he did as she asked. How could he refuse Elizabeth?

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When Neal opened his eyes, Peter was pleased. He had been given instructions, orders and suggestions for several days, and he had not heeded any of them. But there had been a change. The doctor called it a break through. The tears Neal had shed, and the full-fledged panic attack he had then experienced, indicated that he had begun to come back from the place he had retreated to. It had been difficult to watch Neal go through what was probably an onslaught of painful memories, but the nurse said it was a necessary first step on the road to recovery. The incident had left him so exhausted that he had fallen into a deep sleep and had remained that way for nearly an hour.

Peter, exhausted himself, had been relieved when Elizabeth arrived. Just her presence had given him strength and hope. The nurse brought in an additional chair, and while Neal slept, they talked quietly. When there was a slight movement from Neal, both sprang to their feet to his bedside in anticipation. He hadn't realized what a weight he had been carrying until she took it away, speaking gently to Neal.

She called him sweetie, something he could have never done, and asked him to open his eyes. After just a few moments, his eyes opened and when Peter looked into them, Neal finally, finally looked back. His eyes weren't vacant, or empty, and his gaze didn't peer past him, unseeing. Neal eyes bounced quickly between him and Elizabeth, widening in shock or fear; Peter didn't know which it was. Before he or Elizabeth could respond, Neal closed his eyes tightly, head moving to the side as if he was flinching from an imagined blow. Elizabeth looked at Peter in concern, and reached down and took Neal's hand in her own, reassuring him and again urging him to open his eyes.

No one refused Elizabeth. The blue eyes opened again and this time fixed firmly upon Elizabeth's face. Neal's other hand moved across the blanket and grasped her wrist. Both of his hands held to her tightly as his eyes studied her so intensely that Peter sensed her growing unease.

McGrail had used threats against Elizabeth to break Neal and Peter guessed Neal's reaction at seeing her stemmed from that experience.

"She's fine, Neal," Peter assured him, "McGrail didn't hurt her." Elizabeth looked up at him in confusion. He hadn't shared that detail of McGrail's tactics with her. "McGrail threatened you, El," he explained.

"He threatened me?" her face paled. "Why?" At Peter's look, her lips that had parted in question snapped closed with realization. She dropped her gaze back to Neal. His eyes were flitting about her face, shifting from her mouth to her hair, to her cheeks. She tried to catch his eyes with her own, but he wouldn't allow it. She placed her free hand on his forehead and leaned close, limiting his ability to avoid her eyes.

"Neal," she said firmly, "Look at me." Neal's grip on her hand and wrist relaxed; his head shifted slightly and he closed his eyes. She didn't give up. "Neal, please."

Her tone was gentle, and Neal opened his eyes obediently, finally letting Elizabeth's eyes to lock onto his. "There you are," she said softly, seeing the connection he was finally allowing. "Welcome back."

His expression was fearful, confused. "Is this real or am I dreaming?" he whispered. His voice was weak but to Peter it sounded wonderful. Any words from Neal at this point were a welcome sound.

"It's real, sweetie," Elizabeth answered with a smile, ruffling his hair gently, "You are safe, and Peter and I are right here with you."

The blue eyes left her face and traveled to Peter's, then back to hers again.

He seemed as if he wanted to say something, but when he couldn't find the words, he closed his eyes. Tears again slipped beneath his closed lids to leave trails of wetness down his face. With a shuddering breath, Neal's shaky hands covered his face; his silent tears freeing more intense emotion. Earlier he had thrashed and moaned as memories assaulted him, and that had been disturbing. But now, his body trembled and his hands pressed over his face didn't muffle the sound of his weeping. Peter had only witnessed this level of distress from Neal once before, and that had occurred moments after watching the love of his life die. Peter clearly remembered holding his friend tightly as he wept, shaking uncontrollably from both shock and grief, on the concrete floor of the hanger. He had felt useless then, and he felt that way now.

Elizabeth was stroking Neal's head, speaking softly to him with words Peter didn't register. The only words he could hear echoing through his mind were McGrail's _"When I break a man, he is broken."_ Broken. That was the word he and Stanger had kept using, and that was how Neal sounded now.

Elizabeth looked up from Neal and saw the distress in his face. "You go home, Peter, get some rest." Her tone was kind, but his voice choked when he answered.

"I can't leave him like this."

"I'm here, and you need a break," she said firmly, then dropped her voice to a whisper. "Neal needs to do this." Her hand was smoothing back his hair in a gentle rhythm as he continued to weep. At Peter's expression she continued, "He was hurt more than just physically, Peter and he has to be able to process that pain. He _needs to do this_ , but you don't need to see it."

He could feel his own eyes stinging with tears again. He looked at Neal doubtfully, still feeling guilt about leaving him. Elizabeth meet his eyes with understanding.

"Go, Peter, I'll stay with our boy tonight."


	14. Chapter 14

_Too tired to wait for my midnight deadline, so this one comes a bit early. One more chapter after this. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter Fourteen**

Elizabeth looked much better after a night by Neal's bedside than he imagined that he had. Of course, even with little sleep and makeup smudged she was beautiful. He arrived at the hospital, with fresh coffee and scones from the coffee shop, by 7:45. The door to Neal's room had been shut, and the nurse directed him to the waiting area. There he found Elizabeth. He handed her his morning gifts and joined her where she sat on a long, vinyl sofa.

"The doctor is with Neal," she explained. "They are updating him on his condition now that he seems to….to register what is being said to him."

Peter nodded, "The nurse told me." The way he had left Neal the night before was still fresh in his mind. "How did he do after I left?"

"He finally settled down," she replied, a pained look crossing her face. "Nightmares started after that. Pretty vivid ones." She sighed. "They finally gave him something to make him sleep about four this morning."

The appreciation he felt that she had made him go home and rest while she dealt with Neal was greater than ever. He had been at the end of his rope yesterday; he couldn't have taken another night. Especially one in which Neal was experiencing vivid nightmares. "Did he," he paused, "say anything after I left? Did he talk about what happened at all?"

"No," she answered, "the only time he spoke was during the nightmares. He kept saying blood was all over him. He just got more and more hysterical, even after he woke up he was trying to wipe….wipe it off his face." The night had gotten to her; tears filled her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away "That is when they…they had to sedate him, Peter."

He had an idea of what had prompted Neal's nightmares. He squeezed her hand. "Thanks for staying with him, El. This morning…any better?"

She nodded. "He was calmer, and he's still there, you know? But he's quiet, very quiet. He's hardly said a word. And, he's so…so hurt." She looked at Peter "He still has a hard time looking at anyone; even me."

"Time," he reassured her, "give him some time. Neal is resilient. He will find a way to deal with this; to sort it out in his own head." Peter needed to hear those words as much as Elizabeth did. Neal would be okay; he would be the man he had been before. He had to be. He urged Elizabeth to go home, but she insisted on staying at least long enough for a doctor's report, and to tell Neal she was leaving.

"Why didn't you just stay in with him?" Peter asked. Even though she wasn't Neal's POA like he was, he knew that as long as Neal didn't mind her being there the doctor's would have briefed her as well.

"He didn't want me in there," her voice was low, "They asked if he wanted me to stay and he shook his head."

That surprised him. Elizabeth had been the one who had gotten through to Neal the night before. Something about her presence had made the difference. At his look of surprise, she continued.

"His nightmares, I think they are about me," She confessed. "He begs…begs for my life." This time she was unable to blink back the tears; they spilled over, and she wiped them impatiently. "And then he begs you to forgive him for letting me die." She sighed wearily. "Peter, I think it's my blood he thinks is all over him."

When the doctor had finished talking with Neal, he came to find Peter. Peter made to stand, but the doctor motioned him to keep his seat. He sat in the chair opposite.

"Agent Burke," he began, "I have explained to Mr. Caffrey the condition in which he came to us and the procedures and treatment options we used to save his life. He seemed to understand but due to…" he paused, "I doubt he will be sharing any information with anyone for a while yet." He looked from Elizabeth's anxious face to Peter's more rested one "as his healthcare poa; I wanted to make you aware of his condition and his prognosis."

Peter appreciated the doctor's grasp of the situation and said as much.

"As you know, due to the extent of Mr. Caffrey's injuries, an open procedure was used to remove the spleen," the doctor explained, "The procedure required an incision across the left side of Mr. Caffrey's abdomen underneath the rib cage. The incision seems to be healing well."

Peter nodded, and the doctor continued.

"The liver and intestines seem to be responding well to the repairs that were made to them. If this continues and there are no further complications, he will most likely be released from the hospital by the first of the week. It usually takes four to six weeks to completely recover from the procedure. We will provide instructions with his discharge paperwork at that time."

"He can stay with us," Elizabeth said quietly. "He will need someone with him." Peter knew that it wasn't only his physical condition that warranted that Neal not be left alone. Physically, he seemed to be doing well. The other was still up for debate.

"That would be good," the doctor acknowledged. "He will have to limit activities during his recovery. He will not be able to drive and will need someone to make sure he comes in for some important follow-ups." At Peter's look he explained, "A person can live without a spleen, but because the spleen plays a crucial role in the body's ability to fight off bacteria, living without one will make Mr. Caffrey more likely to develop infections. I will be recommending a series of vaccinations to protect him from some of the more dangerous bacteria- Streptococcus pneumonia, Neisseria meningitides, and Haemophilus influenza. These bacteria cause severe pneumonia, meningitis, and other serious infections. Ideally, these are given two weeks prior to a scheduled splenectomy. However in cases of emergency surgery they are given two week following."

"When the doctor talked to me after the surgery," Peter recalled, "He wasn't very hopeful. He didn't give Neal but a fifty-fifty chance of survival."

The doctor looked at Peter a moment before answering. "Yes, I spoke with Dr. Morrison when I came on as the attending. He has been very pleased with the progress so far. He said you were convinced Mr. Caffrey was a fighter and that he would come back from this" he smiled, "He said you were quite outspoken about it."

"Yeah, but I wasn't sure," Peter admitted, remembering the desperate fear and anger that had motivated his outburst that afternoon. "Neal's always been a fighter. He never gives up, but this time, after everything, I really wasn't so sure." He paused, recalling the scene in the basement and added quietly, "I'm still not."

"Physically, he fought back, just like you said he would," the doctor reminded Peter "The other, well Dr. Myers will be in later to evaluate him on that front." He looked at Peter intently, "But there has been clear progress, Agent Burke, he's _responding."_

"Do you think he will be okay?" Elizabeth asked the question "Do you think he can recover emotionally from what they did to him?"

He met her eyes, "That's really not my area of expertise, Mrs. Burke," he said cautiously, "I am sure Dr. Myers will suggest intensive therapy; just last night tells us he is going to need some help dealing with what happened."

Peter's concern was that Neal wasn't much of one to share his feelings; he had a tendency to stuff them and bottle them up. But with this, his usual coping techniques were not going to work. "Neal isn't much of a sharer when it comes to his feelings."

"He's going to have to be if he wants to recover." The doctor was firm in his statement. "I'm sure Dr. Myers will explain the importance of his participation in therapy." He stood and Peter and Elizabeth followed suit. "I also think Dr. Myers will share my belief that his progress so far is largely due to you, the two of you; the faith you have in him, and more importantly, the faith he has in you."


	15. Chapter 15

_I have finished my next story, so I can go ahead and post the last chapter to this one. It is always hard to finish a story, to write The End. You don't want to end too soon, but you don't want to drag it out either. I did consider adding a few more chapters but this is the way I wrote the story's ending, so I thought I should just stick with it. I had rather leave you wanting more than to write on and botch an ending I hadn't planned. Thanks for reading, favoriting and following the story, for all the reviews and encouraging words._

 _My next story,_ ** _Après moi,_** _will be up in the next couple of days. It is a departure from my usual, so read the disclaimer before you read the story. :)_

 **Chapter Fifteen**

"He was…right in…front of me," Neal's words were spoken haltingly as he struggled for breath. "It….it was….my fault."

Peter wanted to protest his statement but didn't dare interrupt him. Earlier in the day, Dr. Myers had stressed the importance of Neal talking through what he had experienced while held by McGrail. Peter had not been surprised to learn that Neal's meeting with Dr. Myers had consisted of the doctor doing most of the talking. Peter hadn't been present, but had spoken briefly to Dr. Myers afterwards.

"Considering my last interaction with Mr. Caffrey," he smiled, "This was a definite improvement." Of course, during the first meeting Neal had been completely blanked out and unresponsive. This time there had at least been dialogue, very limited, but dialogue. Neal was very withdrawn; he said little and when he did manage to make eye contact, he couldn't seem to maintain it for very long. Dr. Myers admitted that his patient hadn't been very forthcoming, but that he did make some progress with him when the subject of the previous night was introduced. Neal had became very uncomfortable and finally confessed he was apprehensive about the coming night. Dr. Myers assured him that he would be given something to help him sleep, and that he would be prescribed Prozosin when he left the hospital. Dr. Myers had also recommended Image Rehearsal Therapy. At present, his nightmare had been the same, reoccurring one. It was the source of that nightmare that Peter had coaxed Neal into talking about after the two of them had been left alone.

It had taken him a while to get Neal to talk at all, and even longer to talk about anything painful. But now that he was talking, Peter was trying to just listen. Listen while he talked, and gently urge him on when he faltered.

"He….he made him…look at me," Neal continued, "and then….then he…"

Words deserted him. He looked at Peter with such anguish that Peter feared he would shut down again, having only emerged from that unresponsive state a day earlier. Peter knew what Neal couldn't bring himself to say. McGrail had shot the man in the back of the head, splattering him with his blood and brain matter.

"I know, Neal," Peter said gently, placing his hand on Neal's forehead. The gesture was half to comfort and half to keep Neal from turning away. He wanted Neal to look at him, and that was still somewhat of a challenge. "McGrail shot him; he's the one responsible for that man's death."

Neal's eyes averted, and Peter felt his reflective effort to turn his head away. He kept the firm pressure on Neal's forehead, keeping his head still. Neal needed to hear him. "It wasn't your fault."

"I….took…..his…phone," Neal gasped out weakly, closing his eyes "That's why…why…he…"

"Look at me," Peter said, his voice sharper than he had intended, "Neal, look at me." Neal's breathing rate had increased with his anxiety, but he responded to Peter's order. Peter was surprised when Neal eyes locked on to his. "McGrail didn't have to kill the man, Neal," he said urgently, "He wanted to, and he wanted you to feel responsible for it."

The blue eyes held on to his almost desperately. Peter continued, letting his hand rest more gently upon his friend's brow. "It was just part of the conditioning, Neal, part of his plan to break you down. It was never your fault that man died. Never." He saw some relief in Neal's eyes but just a shade. "He threatened to do the same thing to El, didn't he?" Peter asked softly, already knowing the answer before Neal's eyes snapped shut, his head turning to the side as if to avoid the very thought of it. "She's fine, Neal, you saw her this morning." Peter reminded him gently, "She was never taken by McGrail; she was never hurt." He paused, recalling Elizabeth's observations about the previous night occurrences. "The memories…the dreams about her, Neal, it didn't happen. It's just all mixed up in your head."

Neal slowly allowed himself to meet Peter's eyes again. "I know," he whispered, "But it could have. I could have gotten her killed. I lied to him…about where Crow was being stashed."

"You sent him to one of Mozzie's places," Peter said, "It was brilliant and because of it, we got him."

Neal shook his head, "I thought….thought that if they left me alone I could get free." His voice shook. "I thought they'd throw me back in…back in the closet."

Peter felt a wave of cold as the weight of that statement hit him. Back in the closet. With the dead man. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

"But they didn't," Neal continued, "They left me in the chair, and I wasn't…wasn't strong enough to get away." The helplessness he must have felt at that time was reflected in his eyes, "I tried.. but…" he stopped and took a breath before continuing. "I couldn't warn you to keep her safe. I couldn't do anything but wait on them to come back. With her."

Peter had realized earlier that it wasn't the physical torture itself that had broken Neal; it was being left alone afterward. Now he knew why. It had been the psychological torture of waiting to see Elizabeth die, unable to do anything to stop it, and believing her death would be his fault. It was then that it all became too much for him to handle and, as the doctor had explained, Neal had fled to safety. Deep within his own head.

That was why it was Elizabeth that had been able to reach him; because the thought of her dying had driven him inside himself in the first place.

"But that didn't happen, Neal," Peter insisted, "she's safe. Your plan worked. We found you. McGrail is in jail. You and Elizabeth are both safe."

"I don't know if I will ever feel that way again." There was honest fear in the blue eyes that met his and Peter knew that Neal feared was he had: that he would never be the same. It was difficult to see that vulnerability but after the previous days, Peter welcomed it. Feelings, even painful ones, were better than the absence of them had been.

"Neal," Peter said, "Dr. Myers said you wouldn't come back to us until you felt safe so, on some level, you do feel that way. It is just going to take time." He stopped, studying his friend. "What was it, what was it that brought you back? What do you first remember?"

Neal's eyebrows furrowed a moment before he answered.

"You," he said quietly, "I remember hearing your voice and I was just kind of floating in nothing. I wasn't thinking or feeling anything." He paused, looking away, "It was kind of nice. But then it changed. Your voice. You were….were upset, crying," Peter felt his face flush. "And I realized you were holding my hand. It was the first thing….I _felt_ , you know? I _felt_ you crying" he motioned to his chest "here, and I _felt_ you holding my hand."

Peter didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

"You said you were leaving, and I just knew I didn't…didn't want you to." Neal's voice was quiet.

"You squeezed my hand." It was Peter's turn to speak in just a whisper, "But then you….freaked out and was gone again." Peter's voice grew stronger, "Until Elizabeth told you to open your eyes."

"Yes, I heard her voice." At that Neal's eyes filled with tears. "I thought she was dead, Peter, I could remember her…her dying." He stopped and took a steadying breath. "but then I heard her. I couldn't believe it, but then she said something about puréed potato soup and my delicate palate." He smiled weakly at Peter through watery eyes. It was the first smile Peter had seen in a very long time. It almost, almost reached the blue eyes. "who would ever say something like that except Elizabeth?"

Like Neal, the emotional rawness of the past days had left Peter continually close to tears. He had to swallow hard before he spoke, and he was pleased by the teasing tone his voice managed to convey. Some sense of normalcy. Something he craved and guessed Neal did, too.

"Good grief, Neal, if I had known the mention of puréed potato soup would bring you back to reality, I would have saved us both a lot of heartache and brought it up first thing."

"Are you talking about me?" Both Peter and Neal's heads jerked towards the door, where Elizabeth stood. She had a thermos in hand. Neal actually laughed, weakly and almost nervously, but it was a laugh. And this time, the smile actually reached his eyes.

"Please tell me that is puréed potato soup."

The joy that swelled in Peter's heart at the sound of Neal's laugh was beyond description, and the tears that stung his eyes now were not sad but happy ones.

 _His friend was back._

His deepest fear had been that Neal was gone, but that was not the case. He was here, smiling at Elizabeth and thanking her for thinking of his delicate palate. He watched the two of them, Elizabeth mothering and Neal being awkward but accepting. He knew that it wasn't going to be quick or easy; there would be a lot of physical healing and even more of the emotional kind. But Neal _would_ be okay again. He was a fighter and this time he didn't have to fight alone. Giving up was not in his nature and during the next difficult months, if he started to despair or forget that, Peter would be there to remind him. Neal _would be_ the man he had been before, and anything that had been broken him in him would just grow back, stronger than ever. Peter would see to it.

 **The End :)**


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